Yes, Draco, There is a Santa Clause
by AnneM.Oliver
Summary: Draco stopped believing in Father Christmas a long time ago. Hermione Granger is going to make him change his mind.
1. Part 1

**Yes, Draco, There is a Santa Claus**

**(Written for Savva, for The Maple Bookshelf's**

**Christmas Exchange 2012)**

**By**

**AnneM**

_Dear Father Christmas,_

_I am four years old. My name is Draco Malfoy. My mother is writing this for me because I cannot yet read and write. I hope you don't mind. All I want for Christmas this year is everything I on my list, which I will enclose. Mostly, it's all sweets and toys. You may decide how many of each, but keep in mind that I've been a very good boy this year. Therefore, I deserve it._

_Until next year,_

_Yours faithfully,_

_Draco Malfoy _

_Age 4 ½_

.

_Dear Father Christmas,_

_My mother told me to write to you again this year. She said that I'm still young enough to believe, but old enough to write to you myself – whatever that means. I wanted you to know what I wanted for Christmas anyway, so I was going to write even before she made me._

_Here is my list –_

_1.) I want a broom. Mother thinks I'm too young, but Father says he was seven when he had his first broom. I'm seven and a half, so I should have gotten a broom last year. Keep that in mind._

_2.) I want a toy train set. Not one of those pitiful Muggle ones, but a magical train set that looks real and really runs. I saw one in Diagon Alley. It looked like the Hogwarts Express. I'll be going to Hogwarts soon. I'll be in Slytherin house, in case you were wondering. Enough said._

_3.) I want loads and loads of sweet. Chocolate frogs, Bertie's all flavor beans, as well treacle and Turkish delight._

_4.) I want ten gold pieces. One for every year I've been born, plus one extra. Mother laughed when I told her I wanted this, but Father smiled and said I was a true Malfoy. He said, "That's my boy." I love it when I make my parents happy._

_5.) That's my next wish… I want you to make my parents happy. Something terrible is about to happen, I just know it. I can't tell you what, but it makes my mother cry sometimes and my father yell. _

_6.) Anything else you might want to give me would be welcomed as well._

_Thank you,_

_Yours truly,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_Age 7 ½_

_._

_To: Father Christmas_

_I admit you've always been rather good to me, of which I'm thankful. You seem an all right chap, in fact. Most of my friends don't believe in you. We all made fun of Theo Nott for saying you were real. I regret that, because I still believe in you as well. I hope you don't hold that against me._

_I only want one thing for Christmas this year. Just one. I hope you'll indulge me, as you always have in the past. I want my mother and father safe from 'you know who'. He's coming back very soon, although most people don't know that yet. I heard my father tell my mother that it was true. She cried. Have I mentioned how much I hate it when my mother cries?_

_Please, don't let 'you know who' spoil my Christmas this year._

_Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_Age 8 ½_

_._

_Father Christmas,_

_I've just decided that I hate Christmas. I hate everything about it. I hate the cold. I hate the smell of pine needles. I hate decorations. I hate ribbons and bows. Mostly, I hate that my mother and father seem to fight all the time. My mother is crying right now, as I write this to you, and you know why, yet you can't help me because you aren't real._

_I yelled at Father today. I told him to stop making my mother sad. I told him that its ten days before Christmas, and that he shouldn't make her sad this time of year._

_He told me that it didn't matter if it was close to Christmas. He said he had to do what he had to do… whatever that means. He told me that Christmas was nothing but a load of sentimental nonsense. He told me that you weren't real._

_I already figured that out. I mean, what's the use of believing in you, if you aren't going to give me what I want? Christmas time is the worst time of the year._

_Everything seems so hopeless,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_Age 9 1/2_

_._

_Father Christmas,_

_Please don't take this letter as a sign that I still believe in you, because I don't. I'm only writing to you because its tradition and we Malfoy's are nothing without our traditions. But that doesn't mean I believe in you. I haven't for years, because you haven't seen fit to give me my Christmas wish for years._

_Still, I don't suppose it would hurt to ask you give me something this year, even though you aren't real, and I probably won't get it._

_You see, everything is so scary right now. I don't know what to think or believe. Do you recall that time I asked you to make sure 'you know who' didn't come back? Well, he did, and you didn't, and after that, I knew you were only pretend._

_If you were real, you would let my father out of Azkaban. If you were real, you would take away the task the Dark Lord has given me. Please. I don't want to kill anyone. _

_Oh, and please punish Harry Potter for being a self-righteous prig._

_Regards,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_Age 16 ½_

_._

_To that fat man in the red suit,_

_I hate you. I hate everything about you. I hate everything you represent. I hate Christmas. I hate everyone who doesn't hate Christmas. I hate when people smile and say 'Happy Christmas' with their fake smiles and joyful 'ho ho hoing'! _

_I hate that my wishes no longer come true. I hate that my mother and father have suffered so much. I hate Voldemort and I'm not afraid to write that down, either. _

_If you were real, you would grant me one wish… just one. Please, make sure Harry Potter kills Voldemort and that he never comes near my family again._

_Draco Malfoy_

_Age 17 ½_

_._

_Dear Father Christmas,_

_Well, it's been a long time, hasn't it? Too long or not long enough. Now, don't go thinking that I still believe in you, for I don't and haven't since I was a very small child. Still, I wanted to write to you, even if only one last time._

_Voldemort is finally gone. I know you didn't have anything to do with that. Harry Potter killed him. I still hate Harry Potter, but I'm glad he killed him. So glad. Harry Potter said hello to me on the street the other day. He smiled, lifted his hand, and said, "Hello, Malfoy". Why? Why would he waste his time saying hello to me? Surely, he still hates me as much as I still hate him. True, we aren't children any longer, and we should probably 'forgive and forget', but I'm not ready to do either, and I find it hard to believe that he is as well._

_But he did say hello to me. I didn't say it back. I merely nodded my head in response. That's all he deserves. A nod of the head. After all, I still hate him._

_Weaslebee was with him and he nodded to me after I nodded to Potter. He's such a wanker. He couldn't even find an original way to say hello to me. He had to steal my head nod. Whatever. I hate him more than I hate Potter, if that's possible. I heard he's been accepted to play professional Quidditch. If I cared a bit more about the ginger-headed vermin, I might be jealous. But, I don't and I'm not. Not one whit._

_I wonder where their curly-headed friend was? You know the one. Hermione Granger. She wasn't with them. I haven't seen her in years. I still think about her sometimes. I have nightmares that involve that girl, actually. Nightmares where I remember her screaming in agony on the floor of the drawing room at The Manor. I think I hate her most of all. How dare she appear in my nightmares? And my dreams. And my daydreams._

_Well, this is enough of a letter for this year. It will probably be my last._

_Draco Malfoy_

_Age 25 ½_

.

Snow was falling down from a somnolent gray sky. Along with the snow came a sudden drop of temperature. Christmas was nearly here. Hermione Granger looked out the window of her new office at all the swirling, whispering snow and smiled. She didn't mind the gray sky, or the snow, or the cold. She loved this time of year. She loved everything about it. She loved the smell of evergreen. She loved gingerbread and biscuits. She loved presents (both giving and receiving.) She loved the feeling of happiness and hopefulness that came with this time of year. Christmas represented everything good, clean and right. It filled her with hope that someday she would finally be happy.

Shifting away from the window, she moved to the desk of her new office and began shuffling papers and quills around. Today was an important day. It wasn't important because it was only nine days until Christmas. It was important because her dream finally came true. Therefore, she felt as if today might be the most important day of her life. Of course, she had many 'most important days of her life' _throughout_ her life, but today was still special, nonetheless. For at only twenty-six years old, she had just been named 'Editor and Chief' of _The Daily Prophet_.

When she started working here, two years ago, her main goal was to discredit the paper by disabusing all of the lies it had spread over the years regarding Harry Potter and their friends. The paper was nothing but a gossip rag at the time, and Hermione wanted to turn it back into the respectable newspaper that it had once been. And now she had a chance to do just that! She started as a copy-editor, moved on to writer, and starting today, she was the youngest (and first female) editor the paper had ever had.

She was so proud she couldn't contain the smile on her face. Just thinking about her new job made her feel as if she was receiving the best ever early Christmas present she could ever imagine receiving! A few of her associates were helping her to move into her large, new office and she felt she had to be dignified for appearance sake, so between barking out orders… "Put that plant by the window" and "place that picture over the file cabinet", she kept her bubbling joy to herself. But now, she was quite alone in her new large office, so she smiled while her legs danced a merry, little jig under her desk.

She was so happy she felt as if she might burst!

There was a small knock on the door and Terry Boot, her new assistant editor, came in before she could tell him to do so. In his hands was a cardboard box, which he was juggling vicariously even as he closed the door of her office with one foot. "This is heavy, where do you want it?"

She rose from her seat. "What is it? I thought the last of my boxes were brought in a while ago."

"This is the box of letters that you wanted." He placed it on the floor by her desk. Dust flew up in the air from the top.

She waved her hand in front of her face. "Where did you find it?"

"In the basement archives, hence the dust and grime," he said with a smile. Bending at the waist, he lifted the lid and placed his hands inside. "Look at all these old letters. Why, some of them were written before we were born." He threw a stack of various size envelopes on her desk. "What did you want with these?"

She picked up one, opened it, and said, "Well, it's almost Christmas, and I want to write my first editorial about the hope and joy that Christmastime can bring. Do you recall a story from a long time ago, about a Muggle little girl named Virginia who wrote the editor of '_The New York Suns' _newspaper to ask if there was a Santa Claus?"

"I vaguely remember it. Refresh my memory, and then tell me how this is pertinent to us." He smiled and sat on the edge of her desk.

She flipped open one old, yellowed envelope, and while she quickly perused the words written thereon, she explained, "Back in September of 1891, a little girl named Virginia O'Hanlon wrote to _The Sun's_ editor and asked if there was a Santa Claus, better known to us as Father Christmas. She said that all her little friends were telling her there was no Santa, but her father told her to write to _The Sun_, and if they said there was one, there was, because a newspaper couldn't lie."

Terry snorted. "Oh really? A newspaper can't lie?"

Hermione placed the letter she had opened down on her desk and smiled. "I know; it was a different time, different place. But see, my father told me this story when I was young, and it left an indelible impression on me. To me, newspapers were supposed to tell the truth. That's partly why I came to work here… to turn this lying rag back into a truthful source of news and events. And I feel I've that my first editorial as the new editor is my chance to do that."

"Since it's December, and almost Christmas, I wanted my first act of editor to be a celebration of not only my new job, but of the fact that THIS paper will now be a source of goodwill and that whatever is written here within will be believable. What better way to make my point but to reprint _The Sun's_ original story – with its letter from Virginia and it's response from the editor, Francis Pharcellus Church – as well as my take on it."

"I have a copy of the article framed. I was going to put it up on my wall." She reached into another box and pulled out a frame with an article, then handed it to her new assistant editor.

Taking the framed article in his hands, he sat on the edge of her desk and read aloud:

**_DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.' Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?_**

VIRGINIA O'HANLON.  
115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET.

****

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, and no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world, which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Handing the framed article back to Hermione, Terry bent down, reached inside the box, and lifted out several other old letters. "And that's where these come in, I presume?"

"Exactly. These are old letters written to 'Father Christmas' and I thought I might find a letter from 'my own' Virginia, and then I could fashion a response to it, to accompany the reprint of the original article in _The Sun_."

Terry smiled and claimed, "You're brilliant, Miss Editor. Bloody Brilliant."

Draco Malfoy walked along the cobbled street of Diagon Alley and stared at the swirling snow falling all around him. Tilting his head skyward, he saw the gray sky and the dark clouds and shivered. Pulling his coat tighter around him, he continued onward to his destination, all the while thinking about how much he hated Christmastime.

He hated cold weather, snow, greenery, the smell of pine, bright ostentatious decorations. Mostly, he hated the traditions and silly trappings that went along with the season – such as believing in Father Christmas. Draco grunted as he thought of the million of parents who lied to their children every year – telling them that all would be right in their contained little worlds – if only the believed. What rubbish!

Whenever he thought of the ruse of 'Father Christmas'… and his counterparts of St. Nick, Santa Claus, etc, etc, etc… he felt literally ill to his stomach. No, that wasn't it. He felt a pain, right in the middle of his chest. Bringing his hand up to his chest absentmindedly, he rubbed it over his coat, above his heart. He always got the same empty, hollow, cold feeling in the middle of his chest, where his heart should be, whenever he thought of Christmas and everything to do with it.

When he was younger, he would get that feeling of dread and pain when his father would stay out all night doing misdeeds with the other Death Eaters, leaving Draco and his mother alone and worried at home.

He would get it when his mother would lock herself in her room and cry, worrying about her husband, her sister and her son.

He got it the year he was given the task to kill their Headmaster back when he was in school. Actually, that feeling persisted most of that year, but it was more intense at Christmas.

He had it in spades the year the Dark Lord took over his home… the year his father was a broken, ruinous shell of a man, the year his mother was afraid of her own shadow, the year his crazy, stupid aunt tortured a little mudblood on their best Persian rug in the drawling room.

The feeling didn't even lift the year St. Potter killed the evil creature Voldemort, even though they were all free. Perhaps it was because his father was sent to Prison, his mother sentenced to house arrest, and all of them (Draco included) was vilified daily in that farce of a paper, _The Daily Prophet._

The feeling intensified when he would pass people like Harry Potter on the street, and of course, at Christmastime.

Pulling his collar up higher, sticking his hands in his coat pocket, he trekked forward to his destination. He was on his way to a meeting at the former rag, _The Daily Prophet _– but which he liked to call his new business venture since he bought the former piece of filth.

Yes, he was on his way to see a woman about an article that he wanted her to write regarding Christmas. Since he owned the paper now, and was the reason the woman was now in charge, he was certain that she would do as he wished. He wanted an article or editorial written disabusing the notion that Christmas was a time for happiness. He wanted an article that would denounce all things Christmas. Nevertheless, mostly, he wanted an article written that would condemn the hoax of Father Christmas.

"Do you need any help looking through the old letters to Father Christmas, Hermione?" Terry asked with a warm smile.

Hermione hardly heard his question. She had already pursued a handful of letters and thought she had found the perfect one to use for her article. Of course, she might have to change a line here or there and the boy's name to protect him from discovery. The fact that she found THIS letter from THIS person at THIS time of year gave her pause.

Looking up, she noticed Terry was still waiting for his answer. "You go on with whatever plans you have for tonight. It's late, and I'll probably be here most of the night. I think I've found the perfect letter to use in my article. In other words, I think I found my 'Virginia'."

He nodded. "Just don't forget about your meeting with the new owner of the paper. He should be here any moment."

Looking down at her watch, she gasped. "You're right. I want to make a good impression, after all, if he hadn't bought the paper six months ago, and fired the former Editor and Assistant Editor, you and I wouldn't have our current jobs, would we?"

"Whoever it is, just give him our thanks and wish him a Happy Christmas from me," Terry said as he left her office.

Hermione moved all the letters, save for one, from her desk, sliding them back into the box at her feet. Whoever this mystery man was, she would have to give him her undying gratitude. She was stuck as a lowly reporter for two years when suddenly the paper was sold last summer. Then, two weeks ago, the editor and his upper staff all fired, and she received a missive from the new owner naming her the new editor-in-chief. He gave her the promotion sight-unseen! She could only assume that he had been a fan of her articles, or perhaps he gave it to her because of her connection to Harry Potter and the fall of Voldemort. Whatever the case, she was grateful.

Most importantly, it was going to be a Happy Christmas this year!

Moreover, she wanted him to be pleased with her first article as well. Picking up the letter from a young Draco Malfoy, age 9 1/2, she already began fashioning a reply in her mind. She looked back down in the box and saw several other letters written on the same high-end stationery and with the same cursive writing on the front. For some reason, the stationery and the cursive writing on the front of these letters looked familiar. Grabbing these letters as well, she moved them to the top drawer of her desk, (placing them on top of the one she received naming her editor) and she folded the one she intended to use for the article in half, placing it neatly under an inkwell.

.

Draco reached the building that housed his newest enterprise, _The Daily Prophet_ and hurried inside out of the cold. He had a meeting and he abhorred being later. Heading toward the lifts, he smiled to himself. Buying this paper and firing all the old, stuffy staff that was at its helm made him happy. They had maligned his parents, him, and all things Malfoy for years, and it made his evil, twisted, little dark heart skip a beat while it did a two-step in celebration of the fact that he could make their Christmases darker by making them unemployed!

After firing the old editor and assistant, he didn't frankly care if the paper went to ruin, except it did cost a lot of money to buy the place. Therefore, he promoted the most unlikely, but perhaps the most honest person, to fill the position. His former foe, Hermione Granger.

She didn't know he was the owner yet, but soon she would. She would find out in about five minutes. Would she go running from the building, screaming in horror? Would she scowl at him with her 'Hermione Granger scowl' and give him a five-minute lecture on the history of the newspaper? Or would she hex him and turn him into a ferret? He almost laughed aloud at the possibilities. One thing was for certain, she would write this article for him or he would fire her as well! He exited the lifts and started toward her office.


	2. Part 2

**Part II**

Hermione picked the letter from a young Draco Malfoy back up and read it once more. She hardly knew what to make of the letter before her. She couldn't place the sadness and hopelessness of the writer to the mean-spirited, egotistical little boy that she knew in school. Soon, she leaned over the box at her feet to gather up the rest of the letters written on the same stationery. Pulling each from its sleeve, she looked quickly to the signature at the bottom – from Draco Malfoy, age 5½, from Draco Malfoy, age 7½, from Draco Malfoy age 10 ½. There were even two later ones, from Draco Malfoy, age 16½, and 17 ½. What did all of this mean?

Turning toward the windows, she let the letters drop from her hand back down to the box on the floor by her feet. They floated downward like the snowflakes floating down outside, drifting slowly like feathers in the wind to the box down below. Feelings of sympathy and pity rushed upon her and she swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. Poor little Draco Malfoy…

It was clear that from a tender age, Draco Malfoy no longer believed in the childish notion of Father Christmas, or more to the point, of the spirit and joy of Christmas, which made perfect sense. From the tone and words of the later letters it appeared that Draco Malfoy was a bitter, sad child who didn't believe in the harmony, happiness, and goodwill that Father Christmas represented. So why did he continue to write the letters?

Turning back around in her desk, she picked the letter she intended to use for her article back up from underneath the inkwell and began to fashion her response. She had no clue how long she sat there writing her very first editorial, but when she was finished she smiled, placed her quill back in the inkwell, and re-read her article.

She thought it was rather good, if she did say so herself. Of course, she had to change a few things so no one would recognize it was from Draco, but she kept the general gist of the letter the same.

_Father Christmas,_

_I've just decided that I hate Christmas. I hate everything about it. I hate the cold. I hate the smell of pine needles. I hate decorations. I hate ribbons and bows. Mostly, I hate that my mother and father seem to fight all the time. My mother is crying right now, as I write this to you, and you know why, yet you can't help me because you aren't real._

_I yelled at Father today. I told him to stop making my mother sad. I told him that its ten days before Christmas, and that he shouldn't make her sad this time of year._

_He told me that it didn't matter if it was close to Christmas. He said he had to do what he had to do… whatever that means. He told me that Christmas was nothing but a load of sentimental nonsense. He told me that you weren't real._

_I already figured that out. I mean, what's the use of believing in you, if you aren't going to give me what I want? Christmas time is the worst time of the year._

_Everything seems so hopeless_

To which she responded:

**_Dear Readers,_**

**_The letter above was written by a nine-year-old boy a few years ago, but it could have been written yesterday, or a hundred years ago. The point is, many people seem to lose all hope at Christmas time, because they lose the true meaning of Christmas. _**

**_Christmas isn't about presents, bows, and decorations. Christmas isn't even just a day, a moment, or an hour. Christmas represents the love and expectations we share with our fellow human beings. Christmas is a time to remember what is truly important in our lives… giving of ourselves, showing and sharing love, finding happiness in the little things._**

**_Many years ago, a little eight-year-old girl named Virginia wrote to the editor of the New York Sun asking him if Santa Claus (our Father Christmas) was real. He responded by telling her that he was as real as the love and hope and sense of fellowship that we share is real. He was as real as the desire we feel to strive for happiness. Just because a person can't see what is in front of them doesn't mean it isn't real._**

**_We can't see love, but we can feel it. It's real. It exists in our hearts, we share it with others, we give it and receive it, we withhold it if we are so incline, but it's real._**

**_We can't see the air we breathe, but we know it exist by the very fact that we are alive, and we can breathe in and out without effort._**

**_We can't see happiness, but it's as real as the nose on our face. It's obtained from the little things in life, like the song of a blue jay or a young child's smile._**

**_We can't see hope, but hope is what helps us get through each day. Hope picks us up and carries us along when we think all is dark and depressing. Hope is as tangible as love and want and the air we breathe… we merely have to believe._**

**_To the little boy who wrote the above letter… all is not hopeless. How my heart breaks for the fact that you think it is. Hopelessness is in the mind and actions of others, but it can be replaced with happiness. Happiness, love, and peace of mind – those things are as real of the dirt under our feet and the clouds in the sky. Christmas may be just a day in the year, but it's also so much more, because it represents everything that is optimistic and everything that is desired throughout the rest of the year._**

**_Take heart, young man. Instead of hating Christmas and all that it represents, open your heart to love and understanding. Try to find peace and joy in the small things, not the obvious, because I promise you, they are there… they are real… they will make you love Christmas once again._**

**_For if we didn't have hope, we wouldn't have the capacity to love, and I promise you dear boy, the capacity to hope and love still exist by the mere fact that you even wrote your letter to Father Christmas. It's not hopeless, young man. It's merely hidden behind your sadness. Throw away the cloak of sadness, replace it with the beauty of the season, and soon you'll find your hope again. Soon all your Christmases will be bright._**

**_This, I promise you is true._**

**_Yours truly, _**

**_Hermione Granger_**

**_Editor_**

**_The Daily Prophet_**

Draco approached the editor's office, but didn't knock on the door. Instead, he looked at said door with a mixture of disgust and dread. The entire door was bedecked with Christmas decorations! There was a big green wreath in the middle, which had pinecones and red ribbons all around it. Around the wreath on the door were Christmas cards, no doubt from Granger's many friends and coworkers. There were bells hanging from the doorknob, greenery all around the frame, and hanging from a nail near the top of the doorjamb was a tiny swag of mistletoe tied with a red ribbon.

How he hated Christmas!

When he was little he recalled that he was excited by the prospect of Christmas and all it entailed. He loved the lights and decorations. He would hum Christmas songs all day long. He would anticipate the sights and smells of sweets and biscuits and a large Christmas feast. He even looked forward to sitting in the library with his parents and writing his traditional letter to St. Nick. Together the three of them would bundle up to ward off the cold, travel by Floo to Diagon Alley, and then mail his missive by placing it in the special-marked mailbox (to Father Christmas only) that was in the lobby of this very paper.

Hell, he still wrote his annual letter, although he hadn't mailed them since he graduated from school. In fact, his latest letter was secure in his pocket at that very moment. Leaning against the wall opposite Granger's gaudy Christmas door, he reached inside his coat, pulled out the letter, and sighed.

Goodness… he used to love everything about Christmas – back when he was ignorant and young. He recalled how he used to sneak downstairs at night to lay under the heavy boughs of the Christmas tree. Lying on his back, he would stare up at the multicoloured lights, bulbs, decorations, tinsels, and bows. While doing so, he would dream the dreams that only children could dream...

Dreams about happy times and smiles. Dreams about roasted turkey and Christmas songs and presents galore. He felt happy back then, so long ago.

Then, everything changed. The year he was eleven he started Hogwarts. It was the first year his father didn't accompany his mother and him on their annual jaunt to the Daily Prophet to mail his Christmas letter because his father was away at a 'Death Eater' meeting.

They were preparing for the arrival of the Dark Lord, and that took precedent over the arrival of Christmas and Father Christmas, apparently. Draco began to wonder, as small children do, if the Dark Lord was more powerful than Father Christmas was.

By the next year, Draco knew that he was, in fact, not only more powerful than Father Christmas, but decidedly more real. For that was the year his father told him he didn't have time to help Draco write his letter to Father Christmas, because everything was changing. He told Draco that he had to make ready the way for the Dark Lord's return, and that it was time for Draco to give up silly, foolish, childhood fantasies about Father Christmas and Christmas wishes. Lucius Malfoy told his twelve-year-old son that soon all purebloods would rejoice because the reign of the Dark Lord was upon them.

It was the first time in his life he didn't believe his father. For as his father spoke, he clutched the young Draco's shoulder in an almost painful grip, and although he spoke of good and happy times ahead, his father frowned throughout the entire speech. His mother stood behind his father and dapped a handkerchief under her eye.

Draco's life as he knew it was over, and he never experienced a happy Christmas after that time. For each Christmas after that one grew darker and darker, and the small little light of hope that once existed inside of Draco's heart grew dimmer and dimmer, until it finally died out, to be replaced with the cold, dark feeling that he now felt as a constant enemy, right in the middle of his chest.

For that reason, and that reason only, Draco Malfoy simply didn't DO Christmas any longer. Rousing himself from his thoughts, he walked back to the new editor's door, pulled down the wreath and cards and tinsel in one felled swipe and threw open her door.

At the top of his lungs he cried out, "I don't do Christmas any longer!"

In the strange and eerie silence that followed his outburst, Hermione Granger simply stared up at him, and then oddly enough, she stared at something she had been writing that was on top of her desk.

"Draco Malfoy?" she asked.

He sneered back at her and said, "Yes, meet the new owner of the paper, and your new boss, Miss Granger."

Hermione let out a gasp, sat back in her chair and for the first time in her life she was totally and utterly speechless.


	3. Part 3

**Part III**

Hermione stared at Draco blankly for the space of five seconds, and then she quickly took the piece of parchment – with her editorial – and placed it in the top drawer of her desk. Standing, she looked at the angry man before her and asked, "You're the owner? Of this paper? _The Daily Prophet_?"

Giving her an annoyed glare back, he said, "Are you mentally deficient? Isn't that what I just said? I do believe you were expecting a visit from me this evening, were you not?"

Marching the rest of the way in to her office, he kicked the door shut with his foot, and with a snort of disapproval said, "I can't talk to you with that door glaring at me with all its Christmas glory. I really don't do Christmas." Turning to her, he said, "Your door looks like a Christmas present exploded on it."

She looked at him with bemusement, and then walked around her desk to motion to one of the chairs in front of it. "Won't you have a seat?"

He sat down and continued to look around her new office. While he was looking around the office, she walked back to her door, opened it, and then removed the sprig of mistletoe that he smashed when he slammed the door shut. "And what do you mean you don't do Christmas?"

"I mean I hate Christmas, is that clearer to you?" He folded his hands on his legs and gave her his best haughty glare.

She narrowed her gaze to him and said, "Interesting." Then, holding the mistletoe in her hand, she walked to the chair beside his, sat down, and sighed. "You smashed my mistletoe."

"So?" he quipped.

"So," she repeated, "it was a part of my Christmas decorations and you smashed it to pieces." She threw the crushed sprig of mistletoe on her desk.

"I'm not sure why you are so upset. Mistletoe has nothing to do with Christmas," he regarded, folding his arms across his chest. "It's nothing but an evergreen shrub that grows as a parasite on trees such as apple and oak, has leaves in horseshoe-shaped pairs, and bears white berries in winter. The Latin name, by the way, is Viscum album."

She covered her mouth with her hand to suppress her grin. "You don't say."

He glowered at her. "I do say. I realize I just sounded a bit like you, but I know things too, you know. Moreover, I would think that you being you, you would already know that. Furthermore, as previously stated, it's nothing but a parasitic piece of flummery that foolish people use as an excuse to kiss people at Christmas time and it has no place in an office."

Now she grinned at him openly. "Really?"

Narrowing his gaze at her, he said, "Are you that desperate for a kiss that you have to put a sprig of mistletoe on your door, Granger?"

"I didn't put it there," she said, leaving it at that.

Nevertheless, he wanted further illumination. "Who put it there?"

"Well, the note said it was from Father Christmas, but I suspect one of my co-workers really put it there," she concluded, crossing her legs. "Now, why don't you tell me why you're here?"

Taking a fortifying breath, Draco uncrossed his arms and said, "I'm here to meet my new editor."

Leaning back in her chair she answered, "I believe we've met before."

With a look of disgust, he shot back, "Of course we've met before, you silly girl. What I meant was that I wanted to introduce myself as your new boss… your boss." He pointed at her and waited to see what she would say.

She didn't say anything. She merely continued to look at him with a half smile on her face. That little half smile irritated the hell out of him. Her mouth tipped up at one corner, and her eyes were alit with mischief, and he could see her cute little freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her hair was longer than he remembered… and… and… he forgot what he wanted to say to her.

She stopped grinning and said, "What you're saying is that you're here because you're my new boss… my new boss."

"Are you making fun of me?" he asked.

"I believe I am," she replied. "Seriously, get to the point, Malfoy. You're here to introduce yourself to me as my new boss. Continue."

"Oh yes, thank you," he said. He stood and walked over to look out the windows. "Bloody hell, it's still snowing," he regaled. "I hate the snow."

Before he knew it, she was standing right beside him. Placing a hand on the cold pane of glass she murmured, "I love the snow."

He looked down at her. "You would." Standing so close to her, he could see her so much better than before. She really was a strikingly handsome… no, pretty… no, dash it all, beautiful woman. She was a bit on the short side, but then again he was uncommonly tall. But, she was curvaceous and she smelled good. Goodness. He smelled her!

He walked away from the window, leaving her there by herself, and sat on the edge of her desk. "Now, as I was saying…"

"You hate snow," she interrupted.

"No, I mean, yes, I hate snow, but that's not what I came here to say to you." He scratched his eyebrow and moved from the corner of the desk to sit back down in the chair he had sat in from the start. "I'm here to let you know that I'm the owner of the paper, and to request that you write something special as your first editorial."

Suddenly, she smiled with her whole face. Her lips, full and pink, parted, showing perfect white teeth, her eyes glimmered and shined and her cheeks flushed with a healthy pink colour. "That's so wonderful!" She clapped her hands together. "For I was just doing that very thing! I was writing about Christmas for my first editorial."

He tilted his head toward her. "No, I don't think you understand. Come sit down next to me, Granger," he said, holding his hand out toward the chair next to him. "I really don't think you understand."

The smile slipped from her face and as she sat, she bit her bottom lip with her teeth, even as her eyes turned pensive. "What do you mean, then?"

"I want you to write an article about Christmas," he began, only to have her interrupt him once more. "That's what I was saying, Malfoy! I have!" she said brightly, reaching one hand over to touch his arm.

He recoiled from her touch, ever so slightly, but he knew that she noticed, because she removed her hand slowly, looked down at his arm, and then the most painful and hurt expression crossed her face. "I'm sorry to touch you," she said softly. Leaning back in her chair, she said, "It's only I was slightly excited, because as I was saying before, I just finished my first editorial, and it IS about Christmas, so I was just so happy that, that was what you wanted from me."

Now he frowned with HIS whole face. "What the hell did you write?"

Turning in her chair so she faced him, she replied, "Have you ever heard of the story of the little girl in New York, named Virginia, who wrote _The_ _New York Sun's_ editor to ask if there was a Santa Claus?"

"What?" He looked around the room, then back at her. "I don't know to what you're referring.

With a gleeful noise, she popped up from her seat, opened her top drawer, and placed a piece of parchment on the top of her desk. Then she walked over to her wall and removed a framed article. Handing it to him, she said, "Here, read this first, then I'll show you my editorial."

Taking the framed article from her hand, he started to read it, all the while highly aware that she was now leaning against the edge of her desk, and that her legs were right next to his legs. Pursing his lips, he read the article fleetingly at first, but then he slowed down and read it a second time.

After he read it, he threw the framed article back on her desk, rather hard, and it slid across the top and crashed to the floor on the other side. The sound of glass breaking caused her to jump up from the desk, where she moved to the other side, falling down on her knees, out of his sight.

"You broke it," she said, popping her head up to stare at him. "You broke the glass and the frame! My father gave me that copy of the article when I was a young girl… back when I was having trouble with Rita Skeeter and this paper. He gave it to me to show me that some newspapers cared about people… some newspapers told the truth."

With a sigh, she picked up the broken glass and wood and placed everything, torn article included, on the top of her desk, (on top of her article.)

He looked at her rather chagrined and said, "I didn't mean to break it. I'll buy you a new frame."

Shaking her head, she said, "It's of no consequence." Yet as she sat in her chair at her desk, and hung her head low, he rather thought it was important to her. He felt bad, only a bit, but still, he felt bad.

Coming to stand on the other side of her desk, he sat back on the edge and placed his hand on her chin. Pulling her face upwards, he stared into her eyes and said, "It really was just a stupid article, and it has nothing to do with why I'm here."

She jerked her face from his hand and glared at him. "If I can't touch you, then you can't touch me. Now, kindly tell me why you're here and then be gone." All traces of her former happiness were apparently smashed to pieces just like her crushed mistletoe and smashed picture frame and article.

Staring at the pieces of wood, glass, and smashed mistletoe, he swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. Placing a hand in the center of his chest, he rubbed it in circles, not even aware of what he was doing. He didn't say that she couldn't touch him, and found that he rather liked touching her, too!

Unable to express these things to her (and keep his dignity intact), he instead took a deep sigh, looked back up into her lovely, chocolate eyes and said, "I want you to write an article debunking all things Christmas. I want you to tell everyone that Christmas is just a farce and that parents shouldn't lie to their children about a fat old man in a red suit. Tell them that giving of presents is nothing but commercialism, and that we would all be better off without Christmas. That's the article I want you to write."

He reached down and picked up the torn article, which was in her frame, cutting his finger on a piece of ragged glass in the process. Ignoring the dark, crimson blood that pooled on the end of his finger, he read the article again and said, "You should include this article, and then give your own response to the letter, telling our readers what a sentimental, daft old codger this fellow was, and then writing your response to the little girl's letter."

Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, she wrapped it around his finger. She was standing so close to him that he suddenly wanted to flee. He wanted to remove his finger from her grasp, run for the door, and never look back. Why was he having all these strange feelings all of the sudden? Was it because she was now dabbing the blood away from his finger? Was it because she took out her wand, said a healing spell, and then asked him if he was all better? Or was it because she was making him feel and think and imagine things that he long ago stopped hoping for – things like love, happiness, want and desire.

Walking away from him, she threw the soiled handkerchief, the broken frame, and the old article in her rubbish bin and then said one word. "No."

He stood. "No?"

"That's what I said. I said no."

She took the piece of parchment with her article from upon her desk and she wrote something on the back of it quickly. She handed it to him and stepped away from the desk. Getting her coat and purse, she donned them quickly and turned to him.

"The front of that piece of parchment I gave you is the article that I wrote. If you want me to continue working here tomorrow, you'll have it published. They're waiting on it down in the printing room. If you don't want to publish it, then I wrote my resignation on the back."

She stopped by the door, opened it wider, and sighed loudly when she saw all her decorations and cards on the floor. Stepping over them, she said, "Happy Christmas, Malfoy." She walked away, leaving him alone in the chaos of his mind and her office.

He looked down at her hastily written resignation, and then he turned the parchment over and read the article she had written. He read it once more, sat down in her chair, and clutched it to his chest.

Now what was he supposed to do?


	4. Part 4

**Part IV**

Draco had been sitting alone in Hermione Granger's office for the last couple of hours, merely staring out the window. He couldn't tell if it was still snowing as the only thing he could see was darkness, but that didn't matter. He wasn't really looking at anything. No, Draco Malfoy was thinking.

He was thinking about Christmas, or to be more precise, about Christmases of his past. He was remembering the happiness and joy he felt when he was a child. He was trying hard to recall when he first started hating Christmas, but at that moment, all he could remember were the happy times… the good times. He thought of his parents, both out of prison now, they had begged Draco to join them for an old-fashioned Christmas this year. He had refused. Now he wished he hadn't.

He thought of a time when he was younger, in school, of a Christmas so long ago that he had to pick his brain to remember all the details, but he was certain it was during fourth year… yes, fourth year. The night of the Yule ball. The night Hermione Granger came into the great hall on the arm of Viktor Krum. She was so young and pretty. He thought it back then and he thought it now. She was smiling and happy, and he recalled that just looking at her fresh, pretty face made his chest hurt, even back then.

He read the article again, although by this time he had it mostly memorized. He thought of the ending, where she wrote:

**_To the little boy who wrote the above letter… all is not hopeless. How my heart breaks for the fact that you think it is. Hopelessness is in the mind and actions of others, but it can be replaced with happiness. Happiness, love, and peace of mind – those things are as real of the dirt under our feet and the clouds in the sky. Christmas may be just a day in the year, but it's also so much more, because it represents everything that is optimistic and everything that is desired throughout the rest of the year._**

**_Take heart, young man. Instead of hating Christmas and all that it represents, open your heart to love and understanding. Try to find peace and joy in the small things, not the obvious, because I promise you, they are there… they are real… they will make you love Christmas once again._**

**_For if we didn't have hope, we wouldn't have the capacity to love, and I promise you dear boy, the capacity to hope and love still exist by the mere fact that you even wrote your letter to Father Christmas. It's not hopeless, young man. It's merely hidden behind your sadness. Throw away the cloak of sadness, replace it with the beauty of the season, and soon you'll find your hope again. Soon all your Christmases will be bright._**

She told Draco to throw away his cloak of sadness. She told him that not all was lost. Hermione Granger was telling Draco Malfoy that hope and love and happiness wasn't wrapped up in tinsel and paper only making an appearance at Christmastime, but that it was right in front of him, all year long, if he would only grasp it.

Yet for all the thoughts swirling around in his head, he still didn't know what to make of the piece of parchment clutched tightly in his hand. And there was that old, familiar ache in his chest to contend with as well.

Bringing his hand up to his chest in that absentminded way he often did, he started to rub it, then stopped. Funny… it didn't hurt any longer. The cold empty feeling was dissipating. A flush of warmth replaced the cold and he dropped his hand from his chest and looked down at the article clutched in his other hand.

She had used one of HIS old letters to write her article, and without know it, she had helped him beyond measure! Earlier, he discovered a whole slew of his old letters lying on top of a box on the floor next to the desk. Had she read them as well? What had she thought of the fact that HE was the one who had written them? She didn't identify him as the young author of the letter, so no one would know he had written it, but that wasn't the point.

She knew. Although that wasn't the point either. Draco didn't know what the point WAS, but it was something.

A little old man popped his head in the office to ask if Hermione was ready for the 'presses to go to bed' – whatever that meant. When the old wizard saw Draco behind her desk he paused, then walked onward into the office.

He asked, "Where's our new editor."

Draco thought that was a very good question. Where was she? For he needed to find her. He needed to tell her something, even if he didn't know what that something was yet. "She stepped out for a moment," he lied, adding in his head, '_a very long moment'_.

"We're waiting for her editorial down in the pressroom so we can put tomorrow's issue to bed," the little old man explained, repeating the same phrase he had used at the start. "Do you know if she left the article here?"

Draco looked down at the piece of parchment in his hand, looked back up to the man, and said, "No clue."

The man walked further inside the room, only stopping when he was right in front of her desk. "You look as if something's bothering you, son. Care to tell an old man what's wrong?"

Draco frowned. "I don't even know you." Again, in his head, he added, '_and I don't even know what's wrong with me.'_

"Doesn't matter, does it?" the man said cheerfully. "Sometimes it's best if you tell your sorrows to a stranger. They're less likely to judge you, at least, in my experience."

Draco's eyes moved back to the article still in his left hand. "I have no sorrows." He was a liar. He had too many sorrows to mention, but then again, perhaps not as many sorrows as he first thought.

The man sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Come now, lad, we all have sorrows, we all have pain, we all experience a bit of melancholy this time of year."

Draco made a dismissive sound, turning his back on the old man to stare back out at the darken sky. "Go away. I own this paper, and unless you want to be unemployed by tomorrow, you'll leave me alone immediately."

"Makes no difference to me," the man said almost cheerfully. "Come a few days, I was leaving here anyway. Got myself another job, I do, so you see, if you feel inclined to fire me, go right ahead."

Draco didn't respond, so the man continued. "What's that in your hand, lad?"

Feeling numb and void of all emotion, Draco let the article drop down to the ground. "Do you believe in the spirit of Christmas?" he found himself asking the old man. "Do you believe in hope, even if hope is sometimes done in vain?"

The man laughed a bit, smiled, and replied, "Hope is never done in vain. Hope is the opposite of vain. To do something in vain is to do something without hope. But hope isn't futile. It's what gets us out of bed each morning, helps us to believe that someday, everything will be better in the world. As for the spirit of Christmas, yes, I believe. Don't you?"

Draco merely shook his head.

"Let me ask you something," the man started, "do you believe there's love in this world?"

Draco turned back around in the chair to face the man. "What's love got to do with anything?"

"Just answer the question, son. Do you believe in love?"

Draco looked back down at the article, now on the floor. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" the man asked softly. "Well, let me ask you this; do you ever recall a time in your life when you felt the love of another, or you loved them in return?"

Draco rubbed his hand over his eyes, through his hair, and then ended by hitting the desk with his fist. "Yes, damn it all! I've felt loved! My parents loved me when I was younger. I supposed they still do, and I've loved them in return. I know what it's like to receive and return love! Does that answer your question?"

"You said you suppose your parents still love you," the man forged on. "Do you still love them?"

Draco thought for a moment, but only a moment. "Yes, I still love them."

The man laughed, causing Draco to look up at him for the first time in several minutes. The old man stated, "Then to answer my earlier question, you believe in love."

This time, Draco merely nodded his head up and down.

"Can you see love?" the man asked.

Draco frowned again, thinking back to Granger's article… '_We can't see love, but we can feel it. It's real. It exists in our hearts, we share it with others, we give it and receive it, and we withhold it if we are so incline, but it's real.'_

Again, with words failing him, Draco shook his head 'no'. Fine, he couldn't see love, but it was real and it existed, but what of it?

The old man leaned forward in his seat. "Let me ask you another question, young man. Can you see the air we breathe?"

At this, Draco looked surprised. He bent at the waist, picked the letter up from the ground and read the part where she wrote about 'the air we breathe'. Leaning back in her chair, he read aloud, "We can't see the air we breathe, but we know it exist by the very fact that we are alive, and we can breathe in and out without effort. We can't see happiness, but it's as real as the nose on our face. It's obtained from the little things in life, like the song of a blue jay or the smile of a child. We can't see hope, but hope is what helps us get through each day. Hope picks us up and carries us along when we think all is dark and depressing. Hope is as tangible as love and want and the air we breathe… we merely have to believe."

When he was done reading, he looked back up, but he was all alone in the office. The chair where the little man was sitting was empty. Standing, still clutching her article, he walked toward the door and looked both ways down the long hallway. The old man had disappeared.

Thinking that perhaps the old man Disapparated away (even though Draco didn't hear the familiar 'pop' of Apparition), Draco turned back to walk in the office, when a younger man turned the corner and started down the long hallway.

"Excuse me sir," the young man began, "but do you know where Miss Granger is? We've been waiting for her down in the pressroom. It's time to put tomorrow's paper to bed, and we can't do that without her first editorial."

Regarding the young man wearily, Draco said, "Yes, I know, an older gentleman was just here and told me the very same thing."

The younger man frowned. "An older gentleman you say?"

"Yes," Draco snapped. "About your height, rather heavy-set, with white hair and a white beard. He had a red jumper on and black boots."

The young man laughed. "Sounds as if you're describing Father Christmas, although he doesn't work here – my brother and I are the only two left here this evening. Now, do you know if Miss Granger left an article for us or not?"

Without thinking, Draco thrust Hermione's editorial into the man's hand. "It's rather wrinkled, and take no mind to the bit written on the back."

"Thank you, Sir," the man said as he ran down the hallway, Hermione's first editorial firmly in his hand.

Draco gave a short, derisive laugh, which no one heard since he was alone, and said aloud, "Father Christmas, indeed." With a swish of his wand, he restored all the decorations and cards back upon her door. Lastly, he placed the squashed sprig of mistletoe back up on the top of the doorframe. Leaning against the jamb, he closed his eyes and sighed.

"What are you still doing here?"

At the sound of Hermione Granger's voice, Draco opened his eyes. "Oh, hello, Granger."

"Hello Granger?" she returned. "Is that all you really have to say to me… 'Hello Granger'?"

"Yes," he replied, pushing off the doorframe. "Why are you back?"

"I went home to think," she started slowly. "Then, I realized that I didn't want to quit, because I've wanted this job for a very long time. But I also didn't want you to dictate to me what I could and couldn't write. So, I suppose, I came back to tell you that I'm not resigning, and that I will write my editorial MY way, and if you don't like it, you'll have to fire me."

"Really?" he asked, a smile forming on his face.

She regarded his smile with a frown of her own. "Yes, really. I also realized that they were waiting for my article down in the pressroom, so I didn't want them to wait all night. I'll just go in my office, get my article, and take it down to them, so they can finish tomorrow's edition. Excuse me."

She started past him, but he reached out and grabbed her arm to stay her. "You mean, so they can 'put the paper to bed'?"

Looking first at his hand on her arm, then up into his face, she said, "Yes. How did you come to know that term?"

"Because a young man was already up here looking for your editorial. He said the same thing." He released her arm, but remained standing in the doorway, blocking her from either going back into the hall or into the office, as they were standing very, very close.

"What did you say to him when he asked for my editorial?" she asked expectantly, looking up into his face.

Without forethought, he reached for a lock of her hair hanging on her shoulder. Wrapping it around his finger, he said, "I didn't say anything. I merely handed him the piece of parchment with your article, told him to ignore the resignation written on the back, and then I sent him on his way."

"You did?" she asked, apparently ignoring the fact that he had possession of her hair.

He couldn't ignore that fact if he tried. Rubbing her soft, silky hair between his fingers, he kept it in his hold and answered, "Yes, I did. It was a bloody good editorial, especially the little letter written in the beginning." Then he smirked at her.

She smiled, too. "You thought the letter written by the little boy was the best part of the whole article?"

He nodded. "Yes. Talented little sprite. Wherever did you find such a letter?"

She placed a hand on his chest, over the same spot that always used to feel so cold and empty. Now it felt warm and full. "I found it down in the archives among a whole box of old letters to Father Christmas." Still smiling, she said, "Listen, Malfoy, I never meant to use that letter to embarrass or upset you. I made certain not to include your name."

"I know, I know." He leaned closer to her and took a deep breath. "Did you, ah, did you know you smell like peppermint and hot chocolate."

She laughed. "I do?"

Leaning even closer, so close that they were touching, he placed his nose against her forehead, and said, "Yes. Did you also know that I most equate those two scents to Christmas. Goodness, Granger, you smell like Christmas."

"Hmm," she replied. "Must be the Christmas perfume I put on this morning."

He leaned back with a look of surprise on his face. She hit his chest and said, "I'm joking. There's no such thing as a Christmas perfume."

"There should be," he smiled. "I bet we could make a fortune off it. I'll get on that right away. We'll call it 'Comfort and Joy'."

"Well, alright then," she laughed. "I'll give up my dream of being a newspaper editor and go into business with you marketing Christmas perfume. The man's version could be called, 'Deck the Halls'."

He wrinkled his nose in disgust, making her laugh again. "Best leave the creative part to me, Granger. I'll think of the names, you merely come up with the fragrance."

Placing both hands upon his chest she leaned as close to him as he had to her minutes ago, took a deep whiff, and said, "You smell like gingerbread and evergreen. That could be the men's scent."

He couldn't help but smile. "I don't smell like gingerbread and evergreen. You're a loon. Take that back. I smell good, I admit, but not like that."

"You do to me. I love the smell of gingerbread and evergreen, by the way. Did _you_ know? They're two of my favourite Christmas scents."

Draco couldn't help it, laughter bubbled out of his chest, even though his first thought was to scowl. The smile that flirted on her face sent him into a full-blown laugh that he couldn't contain if he wanted.

"My, but you're a happier fellow than when I left two hours ago. Are you sure you're Draco Malfoy?" Her gaze clearly told him that she really was wondering what had happened to him.

He shrugged. "I'm the same person, and I'm not sure I understand my change of attitude any more than you do, but I will say that suddenly I believe in Christmas again. For the first time in years, I'm looking forward to it. I think it's because of your article, or it might be because Father Christmas set me to rights."

She was silent for the beat of a heart, then reached up with her hand and felt his forehead. "Are you feverish? You did say, 'Father Christmas', right?"

He reached up, captured her hand in his free hand, and said, "Yes, I did. Don't tell me you don't believe in Father Christmas, Granger. For shame."

"Yes, Draco, there is a Father Christmas. That's something I truly believe, I really do," she said pointedly. "I'm just curious as to what the old man said to you to make you believe, that's all."

His hand went from her hair to cup her face. "Let's not question anything. Let's just suffice to say that I've reconsidered, and I now believe, whether it was your editorial that pushed me along, or the appearance of someone who may have only been a figment of my imagination. It doesn't matter, all that matters is I now believe, so thank you." He drew his fingers lightly down her face, then moved his entire hand to the back of her neck.

Looking down at her with a lazy smile, and feeling wild and boyish, he said, "Did you see that I restored your Christmas mistletoe to its rightful place, Granger?" At that, he looked up, which caused her to look up.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Yes, I see that you did. Thank you."

He raised one eyebrow in the air. "You do know what mistletoe is used for, don't you?"

She blushed slightly, causing him to pull her closer. "I once heard it was nothing but a parasitic piece of nothing that people used as an excuse to kiss at Christmastime." She moved her hands from his chest to wrap them around the back of his neck. "But then again, the person who told me that has never been a reliable source."

"You don't say," he laughed, enjoying the mutual affection they were sharing. He felt joy and happiness for the first time in years, and he had this woman to thank for it. Now he had to repay her. "Then let me use it as an excuse to say Happy Christmas, dear Granger." And with that, his mouth descended toward hers.

The touch of her lips under his caused that hollow empty feeling in his chest to disappear completely. Kissing her, holding her in his arms, he thought of pine needles, sweets, gingerbread, peppermint, wrapping paper and bows. Holding her tighter, angling his face toward hers, deepening the kiss, he thought of sleigh rides, carols, and Christmas trees with hundreds and lights and a big star on the top.

Kissing her felt like the only right thing in his world. His mouth continued to brush against hers, their tongues touching, and suddenly the word 'hope' began to have a new, special meaning in his previously empty, cold heart.

With his mouth on hers, everything made sense, although there was nothing sensible about this kiss. This kiss was wild and wanting and he pressed her against the doorframe without thinking, making him feel happy and glad to be alive.

The knowledge of THIS KISS at THIS MOMENT at Christmastime made his heart glad. Pleasure filled his insides with an odd heat, as one kiss turned into another, and another turned into something else.

And just as all good things must end… just as Christmas ended at midnight on the twenty-fifth of December, he ended their kiss with a deep sigh and an even deeper embrace. Holding her in his arms, he kissed the top of her head and said, "Thank you for giving me back Christmas, Hermione."

"You're welcome, Draco," she mumbled against his chest, her fingers curling in the folds of his jacket.

"You're the best Christmas present I've ever received," he said with a spark of joy and laughter. "Do you mind if I unwrap you and play with you a while?"

She laughed and said, "It's not Christmas day yet."

"It doesn't matter. I don't mind an early Christmas present." He pulled her into the office, kicked the door shut with his foot and said, "Didn't you know… I don't do Christmas anyway, Granger."

Then they continued exploring the hope and wonder of Christmas – together.

~The End ~


End file.
